Thursday, June 4, 2009

Cecropia Moths Mating

At midnight the chrysalis splitsand the female moth emerges,her six-inch wingspan rumpled,her mouthless segmented torsolimber and curved like a smile.The male’s there waiting for her.With a shudder of fragile patternsthey mate, knotting one bowtie.

I watch from only inches away,pointing a camera to capturethis world-class pornography.Too gradual, almost motionless,this sex act defies the logicof wasting most of a life cocooned.

Spangled with blue and red knobs,the rubbery green caterpillarthat last summer crept from leafto leaf with gourmet intentionsseemed a bustle of self-propulsion compared to these excruciatingcreatures locked in a gestureno human form could emulatewithout collapsing into boredom.

Overhead, Canis Major crossesthe sky at a silent gallop.The Dipper pours thousands of stars.Whole galaxies snuff as forcesapply urgencies of dark matterto the space we thought was emptyuntil physics taught us better.